


The Victorian Affair

by RyeBread



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Casual Sex, Gaslamp Fantasy, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Strangers to Lovers, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22378915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyeBread/pseuds/RyeBread
Summary: Dorian hears from Vivienne that there is an absolutely amazing tailor located in Minrathous, where he works and lives. Trading for the location of the illustrious craftsman, he is eager to meet him. Then he meets the doorman.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	The Victorian Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my belated second fic for the Adoribull Reverse Bang, [The Victorian Affair by The Tevinter Phoenix](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/post/190311532929/by-gaslamps-light-the-new-hit-beetle).

Dorian is late, lost, and absolutely livid. He was told it would only be a short walk through the better parts of the city, though considering his sources, he’s not surprised she’s sent him on a nug chase into the trash strewn alleys of the lower districts. He’s of half a mind to turn right around and forget this whole trip.

The other half of his mind is still caught up on the idea of finding the near mythical tailor Vivienne had spoken about in their missives. When she had shown off her latest gown, Dorian hadn’t been overly impressed with the cut and style—why would he? It was painfully Orlesian—but she brought with her a portfolio and swatches. The photographs were astounding, men’s and women’s fashions draped over idealized bodies, from dresses to suits to sashes and vests. Each photo came with a painted concept beside it with fabric swatches for each piece of the outfit to give a true experience for how it would feel. Dorian had done his best to keep himself from showing just how impressed he was with the whole affair, but it was an art form that deserved to be openly admired. Then she had opened the album to the back, showcasing corsets and other undergarments and Dorian would not be exaggerating to say he had fallen a little in love. Then she had hit him with the finishing blow: the sempster is located in Tevinter. In exchange for the location of the tailor, Dorian had ceded the name of his vintner and given Vivienne permission to drop his name for a reasonable rate. All she’d given were vague directions through the streets and the instruction to tell the doorman that he was there for a fitting at noon. If it turned out she had sought to embarrass him by sending him through the dirt and mud of this damnable city’s underbelly, she could expect him to be sending word to every vineyard in the known world to blacklist her events. 

“You lost?”  
  
The question pulls Dorian from his vengeful reverie, drawing his attention to the asker. A Qunari, because of course that’s what would be waiting for him at the end of a dimly lit alleyway in the bowels of this Maker-forsaken city. A particularly large Qunari at that, with an eyepatch and clothing evidently salvaged from the last time a circus had come through town. _Wonderful_ , Dorian thinks, _the rabble._  
  
“He asked a question, Altus,” a second voice says, pulling Dorian’s attention to the man seated beside the Qunari on an unused crate. He’s positively diminutive in comparison to the great horned beast standing to his right, though he’s got a presence to him once Dorian has a chance to look him over. 

Dorian’s a little out of practice in applying his magic to real world settings, but he—as the smaller man said— _is_ an Altus of the Imperium. Dorian twirls his skull-capped staff in what he imagines to be an imposing display of deftness, channeling his mana into a quick fear spell. The polished silver skull glows violet. “Not lost,” Dorian says, “and certainly not helpless, either.”

To his credit, the Qunari doesn’t flinch. An interesting feature given their baked-in fear of magic and mages. Instead, he raises a hand dismissively, “Woah there, big guy, it was an honest question. It’s not often someone dressed like you comes blundering around the back alleys. Just wondering what’s got a peacock strutting around the garbage.”

“Just taking a stroll through the poor districts to gawk like a zoo-goer?” the Qunari’s companion asks. He takes a pull from a brown bottle, then sets it down on the ground beside him. “I’d just head back the way you came in that case.”

Dorian’s impressed by the man’s gall, though less impressed by the assumption. Then again, it’s not exactly uncommon for some of the upper crust to do exactly as he described. Dorian grips his self-righteous anger before it can give too far into sympathy into the plights of the poor. He’s been there, on the streets, lost in ways he is certainly not now, and this young man has no basis on which to judge him like this. “I fear my journey takes me forward not back,” Dorian says, still brandishing his staff, though tucked against his waist now. 

“Well where’s it your journey’s supposed to end, Altus?” 

“None of your business,” Dorian says, already starting forward. His grip goes white knuckled when the Qunari holds out a hand to bar his way. “I don’t relish making you move, but please don’t assume I can’t.”

“I like that energy,” the Qunari says, “but I’m afraid you’re not getting back there without an appointment.”

“Says who?” Dorian asks, confused and angry. “Who do you think you are?”

“How inconsiderate of me! I’m The Iron Bull and this here is Cremisius,” Bull—evidently—says. “And if you don’t know what you’d need an appointment _for,_ then I don’t think you’re getting back there.”  
  
“I don’t need to know what sort of establishment needs to employ you as a bodyguard, but I assure you I’m not interested in digging up your secrets. All I need is access to the through-alley so I can get to my destination.”  
  
“I’m not a bodyguard,” Bull laughs. He pauses for a moment, “Well, not right now. Today I’m simply the doorman.”  
  
“The door-” Dorian splutters, then realization hits him like a brick. He clears his throat, “You’re the doorman?”  
  
“It’s what he said, Altus,” Krem says, leaning back.  
  
“Oh Maker,” Dorian mumbles, “I don’t suppose telling you I have a fitting at noon means anything to you?”  
  
“Was wondering how long it’d take you,” Krem says.  
  
“Ma’am gave advance notice to be expecting… what was it she’d said, Krem?”  
  
“I think it was something along the lines of ‘an out of place dandy with a cane.’ Not that’s a narrow description of you lot.”  
  
Dorian’s embarrassment is quickly subsumed by annoyance—a somewhat common occurence, if he’s honest with himself. “It’s hardly my fault I didn’t pick up on what exactly you’re doing here, dressed like that. If this is the image your employer is hoping to cultivate, I fear my needs are beyond his means.”  
  
“Oh he tried fitting me up in something nice and fancy like that suit of yours,” Bull says, “but then just about anyone would figure something was up back here, wouldn’t they?”

It does make a mite of sense, Dorian supposes. “How was I, someone with an address, supposed to know I had found the right place?”  
  
“You could ask,” Krem suggests, raising his eyebrows like he knows it had never occurred to Dorian to ask the locals for more precise directions. “Though I’m surprised the Madame de Fer left you with no way of recognizing the place.”  
  
“All she had said was the doorman would be…” _his type_ , Dorian doesn’t finish, cheeks flaring. “Waiting for the passphrase,” he finishes.

“Well, you found the place and you gave the phrase,” Bull says, standing aside and gesturing to the side alley obscured by boxes and discarded cloth. Given the opportunity to look at him as something other than a threat, Dorian can admit to himself that Bull does cut something of an impressive figure. Bulky and strong in a way so far removed from the ideal male aesthetic of Tevinter that he’s tempting for the novelty alone. Well, that’s a lie. He’s tempting because Dorian has _always_ found that kind of thing attractive, but the fact that he has yet to find a paramour with any sort of presence among a string of lithe, delicately muscled young men eager to find a step up among the Tevinter upper crust has left Dorian a little wanting. No shame on them for indulging while making their climb, but none of them have given much for Dorian to hold on to, so to speak. 

“Thank you,” Dorian says, moving to step around and into the newly vacated space.  
  
“No problem,” Bull says.  
  
“A bit of a problem,” Krem corrects. “Enjoy your trip.”  
  
Dorian rolls his eyes, but continues forward toward the shop. Like he’s stepped into a faerie circle, the rough and dirty walls transform the moment he pushes aside the dirty hanging cloth. The storefront is blank, but the stonework is clean and polished, the one, wide window showcasing three incredible outfits beyond any Dorian’s seen before—which for Dorian is saying something indeed—in terms of both color coordination and cut. The layers involved in the dress would put any of his own personal tailors to shame; the lacework is exquisite even from a dozen feet away. The suit is frilled in all the right places, with a tight vest and a cinched waist. Then, cheekily behind the other two, is a mannequin showcasing a subdued, black corset, ribbed no doubt with baleen and latched at the front with silver. Dorian nearly drops his staff in surprise. How Vivienne could claim this miracle worker as her tailor when she wears outfits so clearly designed by a bumbling Orlesian with no grasp of subtlety or craftsmanship just speaks to how she can’t appreciate true art. Dorian would wager hard cash that she uses this man to spice up the clothes provided to her by her lover, Bastien, rather than allowing this _visionary_ to do his best work uninterrupted. 

He steps into the shop through the unadorned, wooden door. A set of bells chime above him, muffled by the vestments and fabric draped throughout. Even hats are lined up on shelves custom fit to showcase their best features. He feels a bit overwhelmed, to be quite honest. Luckily, a polite cough pulls his attention from the variety of statement pieces and toward the Dwarven gentleman sitting on a stool just below Dorian’s sight-line. 

“Welcome to my shop. I’m Edric Cadash, you must be Dorian Pavus,” the Dwarf says, quickly pulling pins from the corner of his mouth and sticking them into a felted nug. He stands, extending a hand, “A pleasure.”  
  
“I must say the pleasure is all mine,” Dorian says, still a little starstruck. “I had never imagined…”  
  
“A dwarf tailor?” Cadash offers.  
  
“No! Well, yes, but not what I was going to say. I had never imagined the true quality of your craftsmanship compared to what the Madame De Fer had shown me in the portfolios she had brought me.”  
  
“Yes, Vivienne had requested I put together a collection of my sketches, but I’ve never been all that good at getting the ideas from my head onto the page. They translate best when I’m putting them onto a person.” Cadash, now standing and beginning to lead Dorian deeper into the shop, has a bit of a glimmer in his eyes as he looks Dorian over from top to bottom.

“See something you like?” Dorian asks, cheeky, but interested. 

“I do,” Cadash says, smiling through his beard. “You’re very well proportioned.”  
  
“An… odd compliment, but I’ll take it,” Dorian says.  
  
Cadash looks at him with a confused expression sculpting his brow before he flushes. “Oh, no. I. Hm. I meant that quite literally, I’m afraid.”  
  
Dorian feels a wave of embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to imply-”  
  
“-No, I just-”  
  
“-I shouldn’t have assumed that…”  
  
Cadash clears his throat loudly, his whole face red. “You are by all accounts a prime specimen of a man, Mr. Pavus, but I meant to say that I would love to take your measurements for a fitting. And, that is to say, nothing more.”  
  
Dorian wants to melt into the floor. This isn’t the first time he’s blundered into a misunderstanding, but it is the first time he’s done so in front of someone in whose good standings he’d like to remain. “Just a friendly flirt,” Dorian says, weakly.  
  
“Quite,” Cadash says. He gives himself a shake, “Well, I can’t make it any more awkward, so get back behind the curtain and take off your clothes, I’ll join you in a moment.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I can’t exactly take your measurements while you’re in that suit,” Cadash says. “And while I’ll compliment you on your taste, I look forward to getting you into something more befitting it.”  
  
That shouldn’t be erotic, but Maker if it doesn’t give Dorian a fuzzy feeling. Peeling his way out from the layers of his suit is a simple matter, though he does regret his decision to wear plain underwear beneath it all. He hadn’t been expecting to do much apart from look at the man’s work and maybe discuss the possibility of a commission, but who was he to stand in the way of an artist and his potential canvas. A mirror is helpfully provided behind the silk curtain as well as a hook for his clothes as he undresses. The dress shirt is fashionably cut, but he supposes he can admit to it being a bit… plain. His vest is a solid blue with brass buttons. His tailor had assured him it was his color. He finds himself doubting his decisions the more he thinks on them, though he does his best to keep his expression smooth for when Cadash eventually makes his way back. He’s gobsmacked by the man’s craft, but best not to let him push the envelope in terms of what he expects Dorian to pay for this by putting his fledgling obsession on display too early.  
  
Cadash has a measuring tape around his broad shoulders, a pencil and pad in one hand and a measuring stick in the other. As he walks up to a now very undressed Dorian, he kicks over a wide stepping stool and clambers up it. “Fit, as expected of an Altus,” he observes. “Flat tummy, broad shoulders, yes. Trim waist. I could dress you up like a doll.”  
  
“I do make the extra effort,” Dorian preens, lifting his arms to showcase the lithe muscle he’s built up. “Tragic, really, that we live in such conservative times that I must cover it all up, if you ask me.”  
  
“Is that something you worry about?” Cadash asks.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Society’s expectations of your appearance. I mean no disrespect, Mr. Pavus, but you seem one who knows he isn’t going to fit into the mold society has for him no matter what he wears.”  
  
“Why, Cadash,” Dorian says, “you sound like you’re saying I’m a man of scandal.”  
  
“Just an observation,” Cadash says, scribbling down a quick note before he sets the measuring stick on the floor. “Stand up straight as you can. No cheating, heels and toes flat. And breathe for me, back straight.”  
  
“Bossy,” Dorian mutters, complying as best he can.  
  
“I am the boss here,” Cadash says. “Are you fasting? Committed to a new exercise routine recently?”  
  
“No and no,” Dorian says, flinching away from the first prod at his waist as Cadash loops the tape around him. “I’ve eaten and exercised much the same way for years.”  
  
“Good, good,” Cadash mutters, already moving to first his chest, then his shoulders. “Unbelievable the number of lifestyle changes your nobility take then expect your clothes to stay the same months later. Any balls or festivals you’ll be attending in coming months in succession?”  
  
“There are always balls,” Dorian says. “I swear we can’t go a week without hosting two or three. Why the interest?”  
  
“A couple reasons. Balls means food means eating. A… less disciplined man might expect to put on a few pounds in that case.”  
  
“I can assure you, my figure undergoing rapid changes is unlikely. Whatever measurements you take will be accurate in ten years’ time, Maker willing.”

Cadash just hums, jotting notes dutifully into his notepad as he directs Dorian’s movements to get the most accurate measure. “Any scars or blemishes currently concealed that you’d like clothing to cover?”  
  
“All these questions, you sound like an inquisitor,” Dorian says, shifting his stance to allow Cadash to measure his thighs. “No scars, no. I’m not one of those who always has a glamour up to disguise their imperfections. I’m afraid the perfection you see is completely genuine.”  
  
“I assumed it was either that or you’re an extremely powerful illusionist,” Cadash says. “Though if it were the latter, you’d hardly need me, would you?”  
  
“Perhaps I’m just here to observe your work, get a better idea of what images I should craft for myself.”  
  
“I’ll just hope you aren’t,” Cadash says easily. He finishes his notes and steps down to look up at Dorian. “Now, what was it you were looking for?”  
  
Dorian begins retrieving his clothes, pulling them back on. “This is not, it may surprise you, the most awkward introduction I’ve had with a person. I suppose having seen me nude dispels the need to be coy… I’m honestly the most interested in clothes that are going to be seen the least. I couldn’t help but notice that delightful article you had in the window, behind the dress?”  
  
“Corset, hm? I could have you fitted for one, sure. Any particular color, style, or material?”  
  
Dorian takes another look around at the scattered fabric sections. “I believe I trust your artistic eye, in this regard. Something that accentuates my best features. Perhaps red?”  
  
“If you’re not opposed to it,” Cadash says, perusing a book produced from who knows where, “I was thinking maybe pink.”  
  
“ _Pink?_ ” Dorian asks. “Far be it from me to question you after my deference, but what gives you the idea that pink of all colors suits me?”  
  
“While it’s true not all colors can be applied to all people for the best effect, Mr. Pavus, all colors have versatility. Tell me, when you think of pink, do you think of the color of the sky at sunset, perhaps the shimmering color of dawnstone? Or the pink of a pearl when it catches the light just right? Mr. Pavus, which pink would you say doesn’t suit you; or was it simply the first shade of pink you thought of that disagreed with you?”  
  
Dorian’s somewhat flabbergasted by the rather inflammatory inquiry. “I’ll, ah, trust your judgment then.”  
  
“And right that you should,” Cadash says. Then his demeanor is back to that of the eccentric clothing designer, “So I’ll do a few sketches, and you can come back for another visitation in a few days, we’ll discuss commissions, and we can get you suited up pretty for whichever gentleman it is who manages to catch your eye, hm?”  
  
“That sounds perfect,” Dorian says, then the heavy seed or worry hits the pit of his stomach. “Now, I’m sure you know how Vivienne has mentioned your… discretion.”  
  
“My business is so successful because my skill is without equal, Mr. Pavus. I have no need to go speaking ill of my clients when it’s through their good grace that I find my discerning clientele. You can dismiss any such concerns that I would go out of my way to defame you for your decision to wear my art.” Cadash escorts Dorian back to the door. “Do tell Bull and Cremisius to expect you back in a few days.”  
  
“Same time, same pass phrase?”  
  
“No need for that. Bull will remember you.”  
  
“What makes you so sure of that?” Dorian asks.  
  
Cadash all but shoves him out the door in his haste to get back to thumbnailing, “He always remembers the pretty ones.”  
  
At least Bull has good taste. Or Cadash does and projects it onto Bull. Dorian shakes his head, figuring it wouldn’t matter either way, really. When he steps past the veil of clean rags and back into the darkened alley, Bull and Krem are still sitting there, though their conversation stops when Dorian first steps through. “I take it you’ll be back,” Bull says.  
  
“Yes, you’ll be blessed by my presence again soon. No need to fret that this is the last you’ll see of me.” Dorian tugs on his lapels. “I dare say there are decent odds you’ll be seeing me an awful lot, given your employer’s skill.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Bull says, winking.  
  
“The eye patch ruins the effect, Chief,” Krem says, elbowing him. “See you soon, Altus.”

  
  
\----

Dorian can feel the anticipation under his skin like a flame eating away at his patience, burning him up as he imagines the way he’ll look in such a masterpiece creation. A masterpiece of clothing over a masterpiece of human form. He can thank his parents for that much, at least. And in the case of his father, that’s the most he’ll ever get. The thought of family is enough to smother his mood. Even so many years removed from it, his father’s shadow touches his life in the most unexpected ways. So far, he’s learned the fastest ways to remove it are a good cry, a stiff drink, or a meaningless fuck. Given he’s exhausted his good liquor from the last time and he’s too keyed up by the elation of finally finding a decent tailor to cry, that leaves him with the latter-most option. 

All told, his apartment is rather sparse—practically spartan, really—considering his otherwise extravagant lifestyle. Maevaris had been instrumental in his safe extricion from his parents’ estates in the countryside six years ago, but he refused to take advantage of her patronage and generosity. His work with Gereon and research at the University of Minrathous provided him a tidy sum on which to live. So he stretched that sum as far as he could be relegating his vices to alcohol and clothing. The kitchen was stocked weekly by his own hand when he went to the market on his way home from Gereon’s laboratories at University, his mattress was a gift from Maevaris, and most of the decorations trifles picked up over the years and simply framed or showcased in ways that made them look far more priceless than they were. Not to mention that, extravagant as his taste in clothing is, when he tires of an outfit, he sells it. It lends itself to an air of opulence befitting his presumed station. Never seen at an event in the same outfit twice.

All of this to say that when he’s in need of a carnal distraction, it’s he who goes to them. Trevelyan is a decent enough man, for one who grew up in the Free Marches, anyway. His first name is Maxwell, though he insists upon Max; to which Dorian refuses to entertain. He’s a bit of a fop, to be honest, but he’s tidy and kind and doesn’t ask too many questions when Dorian drops by at odd hours. His home is not far from Dorian’s apartment, just a few turns at a brisk pace has him at Trevelyan’s doorstep in under an hour, none the worse for the wear and his appearance impeccable. If he’s lucky, the man will just assume Dorian is simply looking for a fleeting distraction and be the dear, quiet man he usually is.  
  
The night is quiet when Dorian steps out the door, just the muffled noise of a city turning in to sleep after a long day as he slips his key into the lock. He keeps his head down as he walks, enjoying the freedom of darkness regularly interrupted by the warm light of the streetlamps. The warm air already helps alleviate his sour feelings, reminding him he is not trapped inside, that he can walk around and do whatever he pleases without the risk of running into a barred door or a stern bodyguard. No risk of being manhandled and tossed around, magic subdued. He draws on his mana, filling his lungs with air and his soul with magic just to feel the tingle of it. He’s strong, stronger than his father. Stronger than his father’s guards. He reaches out to the lamps, pumping them with a touch of magic, flaring them up enough that, for just a second, the streets are illuminated as though it were a sunny afternoon. 

Dorian is startled by a sharp yelp followed by a stumble and crash just around the corner. He lifts his staff to hold it by the middle as he dashes a few feet to get a look, berating himself for the moment of carelessness, of showboating for nobody but himself and a father who will never again appreciate it. He rounds the corner, an apology already formed, when he sees none other than The Bull, sitting on his ass and rubbing an elbow. When he spots Dorian standing over him, his eyes widen and his muscles tighten before recognition sets in, easing his concern and pulling him from wherever his mind went in that moment of shock. “Pavus, right?”  
  
“Bull?” Dorian asks. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Well, I was walking home before the street in front of me went up like an explosion, only without all the noise and damage you’d expect.”  
  
“Yes, that was…” _What was it, exactly?_ “An accident. Are you alright?”  
  
Bull laughs, pulling himself to his feet. “I’ve taken worse tumbles for less.”  
  
“You said you were walking _home?”_ Dorian asks, looking around the street, as though expecting to see a qunari encampment had sprung up down the road. “Here?”  
  
“Did you think I lived in that alley?”  
  
“Of course not,” Dorian snaps, “I just like to believe I would have noticed if a _Qunari_ had moved in next door.”

“Well, we’ve been here for about a week…” Bull says.

“You’re joking.”  
  
“Well, I’m the only Qunari of the crew, but yeah, me and the boys’ve set up shop about a week ago.”  
  
“Surely that would have been newsworthy,” Dorian says. “I may not be the most ingrained with the grape vine, but I would have heard something.”  
  
“About the property value going down?”  
  
“Oh come off it,” Dorian snaps. “I can’t believe you’ve been trundling through my own backyard for a week and I never even noticed.”  
  
“I do go to work pretty early and come back pretty late; I know you Tevinter types in this neighborhood tend to be the ‘up at 9, bed at 9’ kind of people.”  
  
“Rich, indolent prat type?” Dorian ventures.  
  
“Yeah, so you’ve heard of them.”  
  
Dorian chuffs a laugh, “Grew up with them, live around them. Yes, I’m rather acquainted with the type. I, however, am the up at dawn, sleep never type.”  
  
“Clearly,” Bull says, making a show of checking his pocket watch. “You often take walks at past midnight, dressed up in your good coat, wearing… rose perfume?”  
  
“It’s cologne,” Dorian says, “and also none of your business.”  
  
“Of course not, Magister Pavus,” Bull jibes.  
  
Dorian freezes up, fist clenched around his staff to the point that his knuckles strain and the wood creaks. “Not a Magister,” he says softly.

  
Bull looks confused, if not worried, and holds up a pacifying hand. “Alright, Dorian.”  
  
Dorian takes a moment to collect himself, consciously relaxing his grip. “Have a good evening, Bull.”  
  
“Well, where are you headed?”  
  
“I believe I said-”  
  
“Yeah yeah, none of business; what I meant was: I haven’t eaten dinner yet tonight and if you’re not going anywhere important, I wouldn’t say no to some company.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Bull winks, just as ridiculous looking as it had been earlier. “I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to skip right to dessert.”  
  
“You are just as lecherous as those filthy paps on the news stands said you’d be,” Dorian snaps.  
  
“You read a lot of those, then?” Bull asks, stepping closer to him. They’re under a street lamp and even if it _is_ the middle of the night, there’s always a chance they’ll be seen by some wagging-tongue neighbor who will no doubt spread word to every other listening ear in Minrathous.  
  
“Of course not,” Dorian says. “My taste in smutty literature can only be requisitioned from the underground market to bypass indecency censors on imports and exports.”

“Well if you wanted to have a chat about literature, the night’s still young.”

Dorian casts a glance at the pocket watch Bull still has in one hand. “You know that it isn’t.”  
  
Bull grins wide enough to split his face, far too endearing for a man covered in so many scars. It’s indecent. “You caught me.”  
  
Dorian weighs the cost of following Bull back to whatever ten-person-to-a-room tenement building his employer’s managed to stuff Bull’s crew into in this neighborhood as opposed to following through on his intended course that would take him to Trevelyan and his kind, if milquetoast, company followed by a satisfactory screw in his stuffy room. On the one hand, if anyone were to watch him follow the Bull anywhere, odds are he’ll be chattered about for months. On the other, if there _is_ chatter, it will no doubt reach his family. “Let’s see the degree of squalor in which you’ve been sequestered.”  
  
“I knew I had a feeling about you,” Bull says, then starts off toward his place.  
  
Dorian attempts to keep pace, tugging his jacket around himself as he contemplates his choice. “I’m always a fan of _feelings_ ,” Dorian says. “Tell me, what _feelings_ did you have when I ran into you?”  
  
“First, I thought you were a typical Magister,” Bull says. “Swaddled in your finery, clutching that staff of yours, looking like a lost lamb.”  
  
“Mm, and I gather your opinion has since changed?”  
  
“Well, first you saw yourself face to face with a Tevinter’s natural enemy-”  
  
“Oh please, we haven’t been at war in decades.”  
  
“-and your instinct was to fight, not run or beg me off with money or threats of police response.”  
  
“I’ve always been the fight over flight type,” Dorian says, flourishing his staff.  
  
“Yeah,” Bull says, “but I recognize a fear spell over a fireball. You were ready to fight, but you weren’t going for the kill. Then you were a funny little firebrand once you knew I wasn’t planning to eat you.”  
  
“You aren’t?” Dorian asks. “Well, I suppose I should find myself some better company in that case.”  
  
Bull throws back his head to laugh. “And here I was thinking you upper crust prats were modest.”  
  
“Clearly you’ve never given one of our so-called socialites half a glass of wine. I swear, two sips and everyone is trying to fuck everyone else at those quiet get togethers. Nobody can _talk_ about them, though. Certainly not.”  
  
“And yet you do,” Bull observes. 

“Of course I do,” Dorian says. “You have to play within some of the rules, of course, but everyone likes a little scandal here and there. They can scoff and titter all they’d like, but if they exiled me, why they’d be dead of boredom in a week. It might make your peoples’ inevitable invasion a fair bit easier.”  
  
“They haven’t been _my people_ for a bit now,” Bull admits. “I have my own people now.”  
  
“A Tal-Vashoth heading a… crew… in Tevinter of all places? I’d thought most of you headed to the Free Marches, far from Seheron and all that.”  
  
“Well sure, most do, but I’m not most Qunari.”  
  
Dorian eyes him up and down, taking in the wide horns, the broad chest. “No, you certainly are not.”  
  
“And you’re not most nobles,” Bull says. “Anyway, this is me.”  
  
Dorian looks up at the house they’ve stopped in front of. It’s a bright purple building, large windows, a square balcony on the second floor. “I must say I’m impressed. You said your crew’s here?”  
  
“They get the second floor,” Bull says, stepping up the stairs under the awning. “First floor is mine, because I’m the chief.”  
  
“Certainly has nothing to do with the fact that the second floor has lower, sloped ceilings,” Dorian says, eyebrow raised. 

“Of course not,” Bull affirms. “Coming?”  
  
“I plan to,” Dorian says, stepping past a cackling Bull and into his home after he gestures him inside. 

Bull follows him in, speaking in an exaggerated whisper, “Now, the boys’ll be asleep by now and they’re _real light sleepers_ .”  
  
A cacophony of snoring echoes down the entryway stairs. “We’ll have to be very quiet then,” Dorian says in the same tone. “We wouldn’t want to wake them up.” 

Bull laughs deep in his throat and crowds into Dorian’s space, guiding him gently, but insistently into his bedroom.  
  
\-----

What surprises Dorian the most about sleeping with the Bull is how many questions he asks as they undress. ‘Can I touch you?’ ‘Can I kiss you?’ It’s… an experience to be sure, being asked and instructed. It’s far from _unpleasant_ ; quite the opposite in fact. Dorian can’t count the number of times he’s suffered through limp-tongued kisses and disjointed fumbling because neither of them wanted to spoil the mood by daring to speak during sex, excepting dirty talk or the occasional expletive. 

In the darkness of Bull’s room, it’s easy to fall into the bed, tugging the huge man after him, hoping the questions are over. Unfortunately, once naked and spread across the sheets, the beseechment only continues. Dorian very much would prefer to just get on with it, but once Bull starts taking his answers to heart, he becomes much more appreciative. Bull’s body, hot and solid, moves in delicious undulations under Dorian. No more need for questions.

\-----

Dorian, out of breath and covered in sweat, rolls to the side of the bed and lifts the sheet just to get some ventilation. Twice? Three times? He’s not sure. His throat is a bit sore, there are dark kisses pressed into his chest and red lines dragged across his back. All in all, likely one of the best rolls he’s ever had. “You’re a beast.”  
  
Bull sighs beside him, chest still heaving, “Isn’t that what you like about me?”  
  
“I’d like it better were I not certain these marks aren’t going to go away by the time I return to Cadash in a few days,” Dorian grouses, brushing a finger over the bite just above his left nipple.

Bull rolls over, throwing an arm over Dorian’s stomach and looking him in the eyes. “Can’t you just magic those away?”  
  
Dorian wriggles under the weight, pushing at his arm, “You’re heavy and _hot_ . And yes, I suppose I can _magic them away_ , if need be.”  
  
Bull takes his arm back, planting it on his hip, “Then I’m not seeing the problem. Unless you’ve got a complaint?”  
  
“I’d very much like to, but alas, I’ve got to give this fuck a solid eight.”  
  
“Just an eight?” Bull asks, sounding legitimately offended. “Well roll back on top of me then, I’ll show you a _ten!”_

“I can’t go giving just anyone and everyone ten star ratings,” Dorian says, already stepping out from under the sheets into the comparatively cool air. “I’ve got to keep you sharp.”  
  
“I’ve got something that’s not necessarily sharp,” Bull says, “but I don’t think you’ll complain about it being blunt.”  
  
“Tempting,” Dorian admits.

“I thought you learned prigs made your own schedules,” Bull says. “Just hop up for another round.”

“You mistake me,” Dorian says, gathering his clothes. “I’m a learned _fop_. We’re still under the thrall of the University rectors and are subjected to their schedules. In fifteen years, I’ll have my Prig degree and have my own gaggle of fops to administer to.”

Bull watches him leave, apparently accepting his banter as the bid for an escape that it is; though he gets up to see him out, sheet wrapped around his waist. Dorian hesitates in the doorway just long enough for Bull to swat him across the ass, “Get home safe, big guy. See you around Cadash’s.”

“Right. Don’t catch your horns on the doorframe going back to bed.” Dorian heads out into the night, a little sore, but happy to pay that price in exchange for the two hours of blissful thoughtlessness in Bull’s bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s ever bedded someone he’s just met on the street; it likely won’t be the last. Still, Bull is the first he’s ever done this with while intending to see them again, even incidentally. By the time he’s back home, he has barely enough energy left to give himself a halfhearted sponge bath before collapsing into his bed.

———

**_Snap_ **

Dorian jerks to alertness, looking up to see Gereon with his hand up, fingers still pinched. “Professor Alexius?”

“You were dozing, Dorian.”

“Certainly not,” he says. “Merely lost in contemplation. The formulae are proving particularly cumbersome today and I was hoping to have made more progress.” 

“Is that what the little snoring sound was, thinking noises?” Gereon asks, eyebrow raised.

Dorian nods, trying to gather his notes together to remember where he had left off. “They must have been. Everyone knows that the great Dorian Pavus doesn’t snore.”  
  
“I’ve got to attend to Felix, can I count on you to restack all our books and file away today’s formulae?”

Dorian softens, “Of course. Do see that Felix knows how eagerly I await our next opportunity to catch up.”  
  
“I’ll pass the message along.” Gereon throws a cloak over his shoulders, but pauses at the doorway. “I know he has been away a long time to coalesce, but I will let you know when he is well enough to have a visitor.”  
  
Dorian starts to say something about how long it’s been since he’s been allowed to so much as send a letter to Felix, how unfair it is that he sequester Felix away when it is obvious to everyone that he is _not_ getting better and never will. He starts to say those things, but only gets out, “Gereon. Thank you.”

Maybe he’s a coward, backing down again. He’s honestly not sure how much longer he _can_ hold his tongue, but Dorian knows that for now perhaps silence is the kindest words he can offer. Their fight, inevitable as it will be explosive, can wait.

Dorian does as requested of him, sticking the books meticulously back into place on their shelves and laying strips of silk in between the pages he and Gereon will want to return to. The notes are a bit trickier, as Dorian would prefer to toss his own unproductive hypothesis into the fire and start anew, but Gereon insists on preserving each avenue they’ve investigated lest they forget and waste time exploring them again. He’s not sure about Professor Alexius, but Dorian’s certain he’ll never forget the hours he burns away on each theory, each fleeting thought that might lead to a breakthrough and instead leads directly into a mental brick wall. It’s exhausting to keep around so many reminders of his past failures, and that’s discounting the paper trail.

Still, no sense stirring even more unease when the Felix discussion grows ever closer on the horizon. Each wrinkled page is collected into a folder then tucked into the research cabinet. Tomorrow they’ll be applying some of what they’ve researched, testing the boundaries of their magical experimentation on nonliving trifles. Dorian is looking forward to it, honestly, but he’s so tired. By the time he finishes organizing, the sun’s gone down and the street lamps are lit. He takes a carriage home, crawls into bed, and falls into dreamless sleep.

The next day is about as exhausting as he had anticipated. Gereon, freshly pained from time spent watching his son continue his descent, is an absolute nightmare to work with. Dorian’s all but chewed through his tongue to hold back the tirade he wishes to unleash upon the man. Their experimentation is paltry, forcing magic simultaneously through a pocket watch and the fade, trying to utilize the same type of magic that allows a mage to enhance relative time in the form of a Haste spell in the opposite direction, slowing its relative time to the point of stopping it all together.

They’ve had no luck reversing the spell. At best, Dorian has learned how to dismiss another mage’s casting, and even that requires an amount of concentration and effort equal to simply casting the spell on himself, which would effectively cancel out the other mage’s spell anyway. It’s grueling work, to come in day after day, week after week funneling mana into what feels an entirely fruitless effort. Their latest theory is that one can use trace elements of the spells used to conjure ice with those used to cast haste to give an inverted effect, but all that has gotten Dorian is a frosted, broken watch. 

For the rest of the week and into the next, Dorian leaves the laboratory nearly too exhausted for leisure. Nearly.

He stops by the Bull’s apartment again, three days after his prior, serendipitous encounter. Bull doesn’t ask any questions about why he’s back, bless him, though he does run him through the ringer of what he likes, what he doesn’t like, whether he can be touches, what he would like to touch. It’s enough to drive a man mad, honestly. He would say it’s not worth the effort, but he can’t lie to himself like that. 

On his fourth visit in ten days, Bull lies beside him post-coitus, huffing and laughing in a way that makes Dorian’s lips curl into a sly smile. He’s begun to take a shine to the concept of laughing during sex. Bull stretches out, arms held above his head and legs flexing down to his toes. “You can stay the night, you know.”

“I would never intrude like that,” Dorian says, already in the process of bracing himself for the relative cool of the room beyond the sheets. “Besides, I can’t exactly walk back to my house looking like this in broad daylight, now can I?”  
  
Bull smirks, “I don’t know, I think it would make for a pretty picture.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately for everyone else, they don’t share that opinion.” Dorian takes a bracing breath and slips out from under the sheets. 

“The next time you stop by, you could always bring a change of clothes,” Bull offers, allowing the blankets to drape over his thighs like the subject of one of those sensual paintings Dorian keeps in his private study. 

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be stopping by again.”  
  
“Is it?” Bull asks, brow quirked over his eyepatch. 

Dorian scoffs, “I like to keep my lovers on their toes. Who knows when you’ll see me again?”

“At minimum? Three days.”

“Presumption will only get you so far,” Dorian says.

“Less presumption, more I know that’s when Cadash is having you come in for a secondary fitting.”

Dorian flushes, gathering his clothes and slipping into them in the semi-dark. “Yes, well, see you then.”

He’s most of the way out the door when he hears Bull call softly out to him, so as not to wake the rest of the house, but Dorian chooses to ignore it, given his readily available excuse of being unable to hear him. It’s only when he’s stomped into his shoes, a full half a kilometer away, that he unbuttons his pants to readjust them and realizes perhaps Bull was calling to alert him to something he forgot. He really did like that pair of underwear.

\----

His thoughts are clouded with the question of why the offer to spend the night bothered him as much as it did when he gets up to meet Gereon at the laboratory the next morning. It’s not like he hasn’t had practice brushing off a clingy lover in the past. Hells, he’s almost an expert in the craft. Luckily, Gereon doesn’t allow him much time at all to overthink it, throwing them both back into the task at hand.

The watch shows time dilation by as much as a single second passing after ten seconds of channeling once Dorian ends the spell. He gives it a little shake, but the hands continue their movement as they had before, keeping perfect time, just nine seconds delayed. “Something of a success,” Dorian offers, showing Gereon the watch face.

“Success would be _reversing_ time,” Gereon snaps. “This is still a failure.”  
  
“A step in the right direction,” Dorian tries.  
  
“Of a million steps, at this rate.”  
  
“You’ll forgive my speaking out, but two steps or a billion, if we can ever get this to work it _won’t matter_ how long it takes to get there,” Dorian says, irritated. “The manipulation of time was already largely untouched before we began digging into it and that we’ve experienced this much success in so few years is, quite frankly, an absolute miracle.”  
  
“Mind your tongue, Dorian,” Gereon warns. “You’re talented and driven, but you haven’t earned the right to disrespect me.”  
  
“Of course I respect you, Gereon, but you’re pushing too hard for too little gain!”

“I’ve been lax! We’re spending too much time studying and not enough experimenting!”  
  
“If you want me to blow myself up focusing mana into magic we don’t understand, then sure, let us just keep experimenting without taking time to understand what it is we’re playing with. That’s certainly _never_ ended in tragedy in the field of magical study before!”  
  
“Dorian, you _will_ mind your manners,” Gereon says, sharper now. “I’ve put up with a lot of your lip before because you are a quick study and show a lot of promise becoming a researcher in your own right, but I will not tolerate this sort of impudence from my _student_ .”  
  
“I am an adult, Gereon! I have been for a rather long time,” Dorian says. To the hells with it, then. “If you want me to apply myself more, then here!”  
  
Gereon looks downright outraged when Dorian snatches the watch from his hand, then his anger turns to alarm, then fear as Dorian tosses it back into the circle. “Dorian, wait!”  
  
Past the point of caring, because this is an argument he can have, if not win. This is something he can readily do _something._ He focuses on the watch, his grip on the staff tight. Time magic is largely unknown, but Dorian’s never been particularly afraid of what he doesn’t know. He channels his mana into the Haste spell, tempering it with a push into the fade, the watch now simultaneously an arcane focus and a component in the spell. He doesn’t want the watch sped up, so if he attaches the energy he wishes to accelerate into the fabric of the fade, it creates a syphon, pulling more of that same energy outward with no further force necessary of Dorian’s part. It’s like a hose pulling water from one source to another, all Dorian has to do is apply the initial suction.  
  
But he doesn’t want it to speed up, he wants it to slow down. To reverse. Gereon is shouting something, but Dorian’s realized he’s onto something. If time is an energy, then it already exists in the watch. It already exists everywhere. He can cast Haste because he’s pulling from the infinite supply within the Fade into the finite supply of a mortal instrument. But where there is infinite supply, there must also be infinite space to hold it. Dorian reaches out with his mana, through the hole in the veil he’s already created to pull the energy in and attaches the threads of his mana into the Fade, then strings them back out. Gereon is saying something again, lightly tugging on his shoulder now. He knows better than to interrupt a mage while they’re channeling. Dorian affixes the mana syphon back to the watch. It stabilizes, pumping energy in at the same rate it goes out. So, theoretically, it is now locked in time. Stasis. So what if he removes the first syphon?”  
  
There’s a flash of brilliant green light and Dorian staggers back, stunned. Gereon catches him keeping him upright. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes, yes I’m fine,” Dorian says, feeling… surprisingly, fine if a bit tired. “What did you see?”  
  
Gereon’s laughing now, dusting Dorian off as he approaches the watch with Dorian in his arms. The watch is still inside the circle, but there’s something off about it. Shinier, perhaps. “I saw you turn back time, Dorian.”

“You’re joking.”

“Look for yourself! The watch has… repaired itself. No, brought itself back to before it was tarnished and damaged. You did it. You actually did it.” Gereon marvels at the timepiece, not daring to touch it lest he destroy whatever it is Dorian did.

Dorian, with no such hesitation, retrieves it. The hands are set to an entirely different hour, accurate perhaps to months ago. “Astounding.”

“It’s not the exact breakthrough we need, seeing as the item itself experienced regression rather than traveling backward in time, but this is…”

“A hundred thousand steps forward?” Dorian offers.

“At least!”

Dorian’s mind reels with the implications, catching on a paradoxical snag every time he thinks too hard on the applications. “I know what I did, but I must say I’m not certain I can… explain it in a way you could replicate.”

“I could follow some of it,” Gereon says, “enough to describe your process if not your reasoning. Take the rest of the day, no, the rest of the week. My boy, you’ve done more in a moment of anger than we’ve accomplished in two years! I can only imagine the strides we’ll make once you’ve had some time to collect yourself.”

“It’s already Friday, Gereon,” Dorian laughs. “Not that I won’t take you up on the extra day off.”  
  
“As you’ve said, soon it won’t matter the day of the week!”

Dorian frowns, but keeps his reservations to himself. “If you’re certain I won’t be missed; and that you won’t do anything foolhardy in my absence.”  
  
“Just adjusting our theories based on new information,” Gereon promises. “Go, I know you’ve been anxious for your day off.”

Dorian nods, retreating to their study to gather his jacket and slip into his proper shoes. He isn’t sure where he should go with the unexpected availability of free time in his possession until he considers the fact that he can pick up his, ah, requisition from Cadash. All he has to do, then, is face Bull. 

He’d almost prefer blowing himself up messing around with time magic.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try to come up with the second chapter, but I have a lot of backlog for other commitments, so who knows when it'll come out!


End file.
